


Painted Blind

by Khryns



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Daydreaming, Escapism, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mainly Androphilic Aziraphale, More like Victorian Like Hornyness, The Downing Years, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khryns/pseuds/Khryns
Summary: Turns out being a miracle-based gardener who does not sleep, charged with  vaguely influencing the Antichrist towards the light, left one with a lot of time to daydream. And it was only natural a man like Francis would fall in love with a woman like Ashtoreth.-Good Omens Holiday Swap for @maria-chwan. Hope you enjoy this!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 78
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Painted Blind

**Author's Note:**

> aziraphale is a thirsty, thirsty angel in the footnotes, so, uh. beware. the story itself is mostly quite tame, tho.

_“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,_

_And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”_

― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

_

_The Dowling Residence, approximately 6 years before the scheduled date of the End of The World._

Aziraphale, sitting under the shade of a tree, chewed idly on the long piece of straw that hung from his lip [1]. His eyes narrowed slightly, due both to the angle of the setting sun, and the intense thought process he was quietly engaged in as he observed Crowley critically regard the flowering bushes.

It couldn’t be a simple matter of gender presentation. Aziraphale had seen Crowley in female form often enough, through the centuries and centuries they’d known each other. Not to mention, Aziraphale’s own tastes and appreciation had almost exclusively run toward the male form. The fact that Crowley played fast and loose with gender [2] had always been the reason for that “almost”, in fact.

Aziraphale had known, of course, for quite some time, that he found the demon irredeemably attractive in pretty much all configurations and possibilities. The realisation of love had come later, much much later - maybe too late, Aziraphale often lamented, especially with the incoming Armageddon - but it had been sufficient time for the feeling to grow comfortable enough [3] in his chest, and should not be the reason.

Still worrying the surprisingly - miraculously - sturdy straw, Aziraphale eyes keenly followed Crowley’s sinuous and precise movements as the demon bent forward to more closely inspect a particularly poorly performing hydrangea bush. Luckily, the distance meant Aziraphale only had to hear the vicious berating of the poor bush if he put some effort in listening. Instead, he let his attention run to the prim way the demon was holding her skirts even as she snarled, and turned his musings to Crowley’s new sartorial choices. 

It _shouldn’t_ be the outfit. For all he was slow to adapt to new, changing fashions, Aziraphale was quite aware of them. He - and, by extension, Crowley - had been around long enough to see the same cuts and silhouettes come and go, human ingenuity endless, but also with a tendency to play favorites. The way the signifiers for all sorts of things - wealth, birth, gender, trade - would get switched around every few generations or cultures has always been particularly fascinating to him.

As it followed, then, Aziraphale had seen Crowley in a skirt often enough, be it when those had signified Crowley was a man, woman, warrior, priestess or whore. Point in fact, Aziraphale had gone through whole centuries with Crowley parading around in much, much more revealing clothes [4]. This... nanny outfit was outright conservative in comparison to Crowley’s usual manner of dress.

Although….

Aziraphale usually rolled his eyes when Crowley teased him, saying his taste and morals seemed to be permanently stuck in the Victorian times. For once, Aziraphale own manner of dress was much more Edwardian, thank you very much. Additionally, Aziraphale knew full well that whatever they might say and preach, whenever enough humans congregated, self-indulgence usually followed. He had seen more than his fair share of it during that time. Sometimes, more than seen, truth be told. Crowley knew this too, for all he had slept through most of the age and claimed ignorance. 

But the point that he’d have to concede - or not, as he could not see himself admitting this to the demon - was that certain ideas of the time had their…. appeal. While Aziraphale would never deny his enjoyment of Crowley’s skin tight jeans - he was a very poor liar, after all - the idea of revealing a lover’s body sent a very specific sort of thrill through Aziraphale. And, for there to be a reveal, things had to be, well, hidden. 

And Crowley’s nanny outfit certainly hid things - her new wardrobe seemed to include a plethora of stockings, demure silhouettes, thicker fabrics and more layers than the demon had worn in decades, if not centuries [5]. It was a level of propriety that Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley affect for any length of time before, in the thousands of years they had known each other. Not even that time she had been, through a series of misunderstandings the demon had milked quite skillfully, a catholic Mother Superior [7]. 

Maybe that was it. The reason Aziraphale had been so… out of sorts from this version of Crowley. It just didn’t _fit_.

The scene ahead of him was almost equally incongruous. A while before, Crowley had cut herself off mid rant, smoothing her features and miracling herself a partially filler flower basket. Not long after, young Warlock had arrived, shouting excited when he located the nanny amid greenery - he’d grown adoring of Crowley extremely fast. Currently, Crowley was sitting on the grass beside Warlock, no apparent thought to grass stains, teaching the boy how to twist flowers into a chain [8]. 

Aziraphale was quite aware Crowley was peculiarly [9] found of children - he’d seem Crowley interact with quite a few of them over the ages, heard the delighted laugh only a child’s antics drew from the demon, seen the toys and fruit and coins placed into small hands, noticed Crowley discreetly curse those mistreating kids on the street with all sorts of horrible ailments. But with Warlock, it seemed different - maybe he child’s infernal origins caused some sense of kinship in Crowley, or maybe it was the prolonged exposure, but more and more Aziraphale seemed to catch Crowley being gentle and kind and all other sorts of four-letter-words. There was no infernal reason for Crowley to kiss Warlock’s scrapes or make sure the cook didn’t put onions on the red sauce since Warlock couldn’t abide them. 

Aziraphale watched on as Warlock’s clumsy chain grew, and the more he looked at Crowley, the more he found himself struggling to _see_ her as Crowley. 

Suddenly, he was hit with a flash - like he’d read humans describe an out of body experience, almost - and he’s seeing not Crowley, but _Ashtoreth_ , simply, as if she was what Crowley was presenting her to be, a simple nanny, with years of experience, an outward severe appearance, and yet enough of a vague air of mischief underneath it all to make her titillating. 

The conflicting wave of attraction and lust that hit him was so sudden and overwhelming Aziraphale was left briefly dizzy, physically and metaphysically.

It felt wrong, and right, and above all, confusing. The righteousness of an angel feeling lust was already debatable, so it always ignited that little spark of shame, the same one he felt when he debated a third serving of sushi. And the first time he had felt it for Crowley, consciously, that spark had been a forest fire, and he’d been so _afraid_ , for weeks, that somehow Upstairs would be made Aware, and there would be Consequences. There had to be.

But nothing had happened, not that first time, nor the second, nor the hundreth, and not even when Aziraphale gave in and took himself in hand thinking of Crowley for the first time. Over time, the familiar spark of shame remained, but loving and lusting after Crowley because routine. Natural. Like breathing. Over time, his dalliances with humans had faded into nothing. It had felt wrong, like a betrayal, to even think of another. And, as he imagined lusting not after Crowley, but after this Ashtoreth woman, _completely_ unrelated, he felt that shame of betrayal. Concurrently, however, Aziraphale felt a dizzying freedom in being able to desire someone without all the weight and baggage that came with belonging to different sides. 

It was all _very_ exciting.

He allowed himself to slip further into the fantasy, like reading a good book for the first time.

He was Francis. Middle aged. Widower. Took the Dowling job for the distraction and human element as much as for the money. He doesn’t like to call it that, but he gets lonely, and the days can get to feeling awfully long if he doesn’t have an activity. Despite this, he didn’t think he’d ever be in another relationship - his first love had been enough for like, surely.

Expect then there had been Ashtoreth. 

She was a mysterious woman. Dark, and almost foreboding in her severe yet oddly teasing attire. The staff had been instantly buzzing and bubbling with excitement and curiosity over the arrival of the new nanny (Francis’s own arrival a silent and forgotten affair due to it), but Francis himself had quickly decided to keep himself away from that woman’s path. It wasn’t difficult; a gardener and a nanny surely wouldn’t have much overlap in their daily activities.

But there was Warlock, of course, Aziraphale noted, just as, in reality, the child shrieked particularly loudly after placing his fresh new wonky flower crown on the nanny’s hair. The little boy did so dearly enjoy the gardens, and Francis found himself growing soft for the kid, especially as he observed as his parents failed to make sufficient time for him. He ended up, ah, taking Warlock under his wing, as it were, looking after the child and - well, trying - to impart whatever wisdom he had accumulated over the years. 

And, of course, wherever Warlock went, Ashtoreth followed not long after.

It had irked Francis, at first, to see the nanny hovering around them, not interacting, directly, but almost overseeing, her expression impassive behind her dark shades. He felt watched, and mistrusted, and that rankled at his skin.

But eventually, it had also meant he got to watch Ashtoreth in return - and what’s more, Ashtoreth with Warlock.

Aziraphale barely noticed as the real Warlock began dragging Crowley away, demanding snacks and juice rather loudly, and missed the small wave the demon sent his way completely, the images in his mind’s eyes, fuelled by imagination and memory, seeming briefly more vivid than reality.

The care in her hands as she looked over the child after a fall; how she played along to Warlock’s most outlandish games and schemes, her laughter ringing bright as the flowers that surrounded her; everything about how that seemingly austere exterior would melt into sweetness for that dear child, about how her voice sometimes seemed to be implying so many wonderful secrets but her appearance gave over _none_ -

Overhead, a crow cawed, loudly and abruptly, and rather more closely than anyone would care for, dragging Aziraphale bodily from his daydreaming. He blinked several times and looked around, confused, wondering where Crowley was for a full moment before remembering Warlock dragging him away merely minutes before. 

He realised his hands were clenched bloodless tight into his smock, and his breathing would have been concerningly shallow for sitting still if he had been a human, and his face flushed even more than it had already been, recalling the path his thoughts had taken when allowed to roam for themselves.

Aziraphale put himself together quickly, finally tossing his extraordinarily resilient stick of straw into the ground, and briskly heading off into a random direction, mumbling to himself about checking the composting.

*

Despite his initial somewhat panicked reaction, soon Aziraphale found himself slipping into the fantasy more and more often. Allowing himself to pretend he was a man who was still in the process of getting to know and getting to fall in love with that enchanting creature.

It was harmless, he told himself. Helped pass the time. If pressed, he would argue allowing himself to imagine life as a man would help him empathize with, serve and protect humanity.

Aziraphale was quite given to making excuses.

First, it only happened when he watched Crowley from afar, especially if he was involved in some repetitive activity - very frequent, in gardening, as it turned out - and allowed his mind to roam. Aziraphale would find himself marvelling at little tics and mannerisms he’d known like the back of his hand for millennia, as if he had only just noticed them for the first time. He found himself wondering nonsensical things about Ashtoreth, like what her life had been like before she came to the Dowlings, or things he knew the answer to, such as whether she was partial to sweets or savory threats (in truth, not quite either - Crowley would take a sharp, bitter drink or a very acidic, sour type of dessert over most savory courses any day, except when spice was involved; then, the hotter the better). 

Those spells were brief and flighty, liable to break at the slightest disturbance.

With time, however, he found himself sinking deeper, into a much more robust state of mind. He’d start talking to Crowley - _Ashtoreth_ \- as Francis. He’d done this before and often, of course, when they happened to run into each other in front of other staff, though there hadn’t been much to pretend, as they had no seeming reason to be interacting much, anyway. But even during such empty and brief encounters he’d been bustling and overacting, he knew - not like knowing he was bad at it was enough to make him _good_. But now, he found himself acting with confidence and without a second thought, as if he _really were_ Francis. And, of course, the most notable difference - before, this had been done for the benefit of the staff. Now, their surroundings and presence of listeners or lack thereof, had been irrelevant. 

One morning, as he pruned the roses (or attempted to - he always felt bad cutting out anything, so mostly he’d tut and moan and explain to the roses and eventually they’d sort themselves out, though sometimes he had to employ the shears), he’d spotted Ashtoreth crossing the garden; it was early, only the security was probably already up and about, though they mostly stayed clear of the inner rose garden except during rounds or if a meeting was taking place there. 

Her walk was brisk, though he couldn’t quite tell if it was the regular, no-nonsense briskness she usually demonstrated in all her actions or one born of a rush. She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her surroundings, for she didn’t appear to notice her path was leading her straight to him. In fact, after he finished pruning one single white bud, he straightened up, dusting his hands on his smock, and stepped slightly to the side, mindful of the incoming collision that would happen otherwise.

“Head on the clouds, my dearie?” he asked, once she was close enough and still showed no sign of noticing him, voice soft but loud enough to break her out of her reverie.

“Whu-, oh, it’s you. Yeah, very funny.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend,” his smile strained a bit and he fidgeted briefly with the rose in his hands, before he took a fortifying breath. Nothing wrong with taking the first step, Francis always thought. “An apology, then.” He took the white rose bud in his hand, carefully looked over for any torns, and stepped closer to Ashtoreth, moving slow enough that she would be able to avoid his touch is she so desired, but decidedly nonetheless. The smooth stem slid easily into the low bun her hair had been put into, the white contrasting wonderfully with the red, but the bud unintrusive enough as to not become garish. “Perfect.”

“Ngk,” Francis though he heard, softly, as he stepped away from Ashtoreth, quickly followed by a harsher, “There was no reason for cutting that rose, now the bush is going to be uneven.”

“Hm, perhaps,” Francis conceded, looking at the slightly thinner spot where the but had been. “But I find we don’t need perfection for beauty, don’t you agree?” he asked, turning to fix Ashtoreth with his earnest, appreciative eyes just in time to catch the way her previously faint blush darkened and spread over her face, only partially obscured by her glasses.

“I- have to go. See ya,” she stuttered out, stepping back and then turning around quickly, going off in a different direction than she had been following before. She seemed to notice this after a few steps, because she stopped, cursed loudly enough for him to hear, and, after looking not-very-discreetly around her, fixed back her course to where she had originally been heading. Francis couldn’t help but chuckle fondly and decide to present nanny Ashtoreth with flowers more often. White ones, he noted, went wonderfully with her hair, but maybe yellow would also be acceptable. Francis felt it would match her well, for some reason. With a smile, he returned to his gentle cajoling of the rosebush.

*

Things only escalated from that, with Aziraphale finding more and more comfort in his role as Francis. As for Crowley, though she found herself becoming increasingly flustered and confused whenever she deigned to brave the grounds, she eventually seemed to begin adapting to Aziraphale’s strange behavior, despite her own best efforts. Guilt would sting at him, sometimes, but a part of him he prefered to leave unexamined reveled in Crowley’s confusion, a bit - too often, Aziraphale had been the one wrong footed at the demon’s pranks and innuendos, and turnabout was always fair, if not very angelic. But beneath that, seeing the demon’s red cheeked confusion and discomfort banked much hotter embers.

So he reveled in the freedom, showering Ashtoreth with compliments, flowers and, once, even an apple, which flustered and flushed her beyond even the healthy rose all the attention Francis was paying her already induced in her fine features. Pink cheeks were a good look on her, he’d quite quickly decided; they broke the severity of her dark glasses, the stiffness of her posture breaking ever so slightly into squirming when Francis managed to get it just right. He cherished those times. 

And then… well, then, on a late spring afternoon, Crowley abruptly seemed to understand exactly what was going on and that’s when things go, metaphorically, to Hell. 

Or at least, to a much hotter place.

Aziraphale could instantly tell Crowley was in on the game because of the accent, which was jarring enough to stop him from slipping into his own part for a moment, only to then also send him tumbling over the edge into it. 

The scottish burr suited Crowley well, and technically there was no reason for any one accent over the other, but Crowley always slipped back into her London best whenever they were out of hearing range. Everything else, she stuck to with surprising dedication; her posture never slipped into the familiar slouch, as anyone could be watching, her mannerisms stayed the same, more controlled, discreet. But her voice was always back to that comfortingly familiar cadence and deeper pitch the moment no one else could hear them. 

Only, this time, the rolling burr was quite pronounced even in her honey-sweet greeting. 

“ _Francis_ ,” she said, and the way her voice caressed the r and stopped neatly on the s was enough to make a shiver run Aziraphale’s whole body, leaving hair standing on end and Francis in its wake. “If the weather holds, I’m thinking of taking the little prince to the stream once he wakes, see if we can spot some tadpoles, maybe some dragonflies.” She spoke without hurry, her voice even velvetier than her usual already smooth tones. Francis licked his dry lips, seeing his own eyes reflected on her unforgiving black lenses.

“Sounds absolutely lovely, m’dear,” he said, willing his voice steady, to a certain degree of success.

“You are welcome to join, if you wish. I’ll bring breakfast.” The invitation was undeniably pointed. All Francis could do was nod in affirmation, and, after a self satisfied smile, the nanny was gone, presumably to prepare for what would certainly seem like quite the adventure for her five-year-old charge.

Still looking after where Ashtoreth had been, Francis found himself frowning. The stream was quite a way into the woods beyond the gardens; Francis wasn’t truly sure it was even within property lines. It certainly didn’t seem safe for such a delicate looking woman and a small child to be going on such an excursion by themselves, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Ashtoreth would not be bringing any security along, for all such attitude would surely induce a heart attack in the estate’s Head of Security.

Though he’d nodded his acceptance to the invite, Francis had been hesitant about the idea. Going along like that to such an isolated place, it hardly seemed proper, regardless of master Warlock’s presence. But, surely, leaving them to fend for themselves was a much more improper option. 

Sighing, Francis returned to his shed, to change into the much sturdier boots and trousers he used when breaching the woods. His nose wrinkled despite himself at the crudeness of his clothes, but the more delicate smock and sandals he usually favoured would be torn to bits by the branches and snags in the woods. The paths were seldomly transversed, and so tended towards overgrown despite his best efforts (in truth, it simply tended to slip his mind, this idea of trying to tame the woods incongruous in his mind with the very concept of such a place). 

His reflecting and changing must have taken longer than he expected, because by the time he made his way through the woods, Francis was warned of his proximity to the water by a loud, cristaline laugh, long before he was able to hear the babbling of the river. 

The scene that greeted him once the brook came into view had been foretold by the laughter and noises Francis heard as he approached, but was still, quite literally, breathtaking.

To one side, abandoned mid setting up, was a hefty picnic basket, its contents partially arranged on a thick checkered blanket. Further ahead, stood two surprisingly disordered piles of shoes; Warlock’s little trainers as well as a pair that could only belong to Ashtoreth, though Francis hadn’t seen it before. They were black, of course, and leather, and much more delicate than the nanny’s usual tall boots, with a short heel and delicate ankle strap. He felt an embarrassed flush at the realisation this meant Ashtoreth was walking around barefoot, but he didn’t have time to elaborate on that, as his attention was dragged further along yet, to the riverbank. A splash of water drew his eye reflexively, and he quickly identified Warlock, up to his knees and elbows on the shallow water, clearly delighted, and Ashtoreth, looking down foundly on her charge, standing next to hi-

Francis froze, his eyes growing wide as he took in the nanny.

She was in her shirtsleeves, in concession to the unseasonably warm weather, and had traded her usual structured skirt for a softly flowing floor length skirt. 

Well, it should have been floor length. As it were, Ashtoreth held it up in her hand, raising the hem to the mid of her sheens, carefully keeping it away from the water in which her feet were submerged.

Her slim, completely bare, feet. The raised skirt revealed she had made the logical choice and forgone her usual stockings in deference to the activity. Her elegant feet connected to equally well formed ankles, and Francis found himself wondering whether the skirt on top of her feet was as kissed with freckles as her face and hands, or if the years of so carefully hiding her skin behind so many layers meant they were completely unmarred. He wished he was closer, so he could see, could check with his own eyes, but made no move to approach, still stunned. Quite a few beams of light were making their way through the thin canopy, bathing them in sun; she’d probably have a few new freckles after this. Maybe her feet would freckled for the first time, he wondered idly.

When his eyes finally make their way ups it was to find Ashtoreth’s own attention turned back at him, her expression inescrutable as she held eye contact. Slowly, she raised her skirt a couple more inches. Nothing scandalous by any means - totally defensible given the exuberance of the young boy next to her - but enough to reveal what seemed like a treasure of creamy skin in the form of slim calves. Aziraphale whimpered, the hot flash of desire enough to finally break through his fantasy. 

Aziraphale had known Crowley loved him for… well, for a really long time. How could he not, the way the demon projected his love when he was around Aziraphale. Aziraphale had admittedly misplaced the origin of that love for quite some time, first wilfully ignoring it came from the demon altogether, then telling himself it was the love born out of friendship, simply, and the reason it felt so overwhelming was he had never really had a real friend before, nevermind the peculiarity of considering a _demon_ a _real friend_. In his defense, Crowley’s affections had bloomed suddenly and early on - far too early on, surely? But eventually, denials had been made impossible before such an overwhelming body of proof. Crowley loved him, and quite madly too, a knowledge that made his own love for Crowley quite more painful to bear, but all the more exquisite for it, too. They could never say it aloud, never give in, but they were united in their ache, but that was soothed by the balm of reciprocation.

Or at least, it could be. That was what Crowley was offering, Aziraphale immediately understood. Acknowledgement, however veiled, no matter the panthomine of plausible deniability necessary, but still, recognition. Admission. Finally laying the truth in the open, if only a crack. 

Aziraphale had known Crowley loved him for a really long time, but neither of them had ever never done much about it - other than Crowley taking him to dinner, and saving him every once in a while, and providing favours Aziraphale barely even had to ask for. The point was, Crowley never hid how he felt, but he never asked anything of Aziraphale. He never pressured.

And he wasn’t asking still, not really, he was only offering, an offer free to be taken or refused, but it was still new. Bold. Explicit. 

And it should maybe ... scare Aziraphale, but really. Armageddon was in less than 5 years. It might be their last chance.

So, Aziraphale understood the offer. And it is with full conscience that he reciprocates.

“It really is a beautiful day, isn’t it, ms. Ashtoneth?” His voice booms loud across the brook’s margins, and he makes quick work of the distance between him and the duo. “Water not too cold, I trust?”

“Not at all, it is quite warm,” she almost whispered, watching Francis unblinkingly, as he approached and smiled easily at her. Her features were schooled calm, as well as her voice, but her eyes betrayed her nerves, as well as the slight tremor in the hand holding up her skirt. It was the first time Aziraphale had reacted positively to one of Crowley’s more romance tinged offers of affection; usually he’d pretend to not have heard, or act outraged at some minor slight as an excuse to leave. He wasn’t strong enough to say no when he desired to say eyes so much; he could only deflect. 

Now, however, Francis smiled widely at Ashtoreth, and, with a huff, set himself down on a somewhat drier looking boulder, and set about removing his boots. He wasn’t sure how he’d get his feet dry afterwards to put them back into the boots, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Surely Ashtoreth had a plan; she struck him as exceedingly well prepared.

The shock made itself plain in Ashtoreth’s features, and Francis allowed himself to delight in her wrongfootness, drinking in her stammering as he took off his boots, setting them, more carefully than the others had, next to the other pairs. When he stepped in, the water was, indeed, quite warm. He laughed despite himself, and was joined quickly by young Warlock.

In the back of his head, even as Francis tried to scold Warlock for splashing water, but kept interrupting himself to laugh, Aziraphale knew this was the limit. He wasn’t about to take things further; even the looming threat of Armageddon wasn’t enough to make him that careless. One might think the incoming Apocalypse would have had Heaven quite busy and, therefore, result in Aziraphale with a bit more room to stretch his wings, as it were, without the ever present watch from Upstairs. In Aziraphale’s recent experience, however, Armageddon seemed to mean more oversight - he hadn’t seen Gabriel so frequently since probably before Earth had been made. 

Besides, Aziraphale was quite sure that if he ever gave into his desire to touch Crowley, to give in, that the moment it left the realm of the ideas and became reality, he’d Fall, or worse, Heaven would strike down the demon who dared touch one of it’s angels. No, he could not risk it; they had a task at hand, and the stakes were the highest they could ever be, and both of them would be needed for it. They had to stay the course.

But if there was a chance - a fair one, he would say - that the world would come to an end, and that he’d be separate from Crowley forever - well, then he was taking everything he could reasonably take. He’d gorge himself in blushes and smiles and hope to the Almighty that what they were doing was enough.

*

_A few years later, in a cottage in the South Downs._

“Hey, angel, c’mere,” Crowley called, from what they had been already calling the bedroom, though it resembled nothing more than a deposit unit that had undergone a violent looting at the moment. Aziraphale found Crowley in the middle of a small cyclone of a truly eclectic assortment of fabrics and knick-knacks, and even - good lord, was that kitchenware, _how has that gotten there_? 

It took him a moment to be able to focus on what the kneeling demon was holding up, a rare picture of both of them, in their nanny and gardener get ups, and _oh my, those teeth had truly been atrocious, hadn’t them?_ Aziraphale took the picture in hand and shared the sentiment, to a snort from Crowley, who started on a by now well known rant about his besotted, self-sacrificing self having to contend with Aziraphale’s costuming choices when he finally received the affection he had been craving for thousands of years. 

“I still get half hard when I see mutton chops, angel, do you understand what you made me go through, I should charge you for damages, make you pay my therapy, Sideburns Induc-” Crowley’s diatribe was cut short by Aziraphale’s delighted gasp, upon spotting a familiar patch of dark tweed on a pile by Crowley’s side. Aziraphale bent down to take the skirt in hand, folding it fondly and neatly.

“I thought you just… miracled clothes on, usually, darling,” Aziraphale said, running his fingers over the fabric. It felt surprisingly soft given the type, well broken in by use. 

Usually might not be quite the right word - in the grand scheme of things, sure, Crowley had mostly manifested whatever fit his plans and was done with it, but more recently he had seemed to discover the pleasure of real clothes - the delight of having them taken off the human way by another pair of hands, the comfort of stealing from Aziraphale’s growing collection of soft knit sweaters, always the perfect softness and smell.

“Well, yeah. I tried, but then the bloody things wouldn’t behave properly. The moment I turned my attention, skirts kept getting shorter, heels sharper, suddenly my bloody blouses were see-through...” “Ah, I see,” Aziraphale said, unsurprised to known clothes manifest by the demon took a certain personality of their own, but quite shocked that it would be enough to get Crowley to go through the hassle of real physical clothes. His surprised must have sounded in his voice, because Crowley shifted in place, looking caught out..

“You wouldn’t be so surprised if you knew Dowling’s track record with female staff, angel. Lecherous sod. Cursed him a couple of times after he got too handsy with other girls on staff. Lucky my research paid off and he wasn’t one to be into the whole prudish look, had enough on my plate with the little hellion without worrying about that.”

“I don’t think you looked prudish,” Aziraphale protested, absent minded, still fingering the skirt’s fabric between his fingers, halfway lost in memories of his old fantasies.

“Oooh?” Crowley asked, voice alight with interest, and Aziraphale didn’t need to look to know a rakish smile was taking over his features, and, soon enough, there were teasing fingers running up the inside of Aziraphale’s calf. Aziraphale had often suspected that perhaps Crowley had a bit of a sense for lust, same as Aziraphale’s own sensibility for love - that, or he just knew Aziraphale far too well.

“I think you looked rather fetching, if you must know,” Aziraphale murmured, feeling his ears reddening as Crowley’s hand worked its way up, now palming the back of his knee warmly.

“Hmmm, really?” Crowley asked, before nosing the outside of Aziraphale’s thigh, his hand settling quite proprietarily on the other side of it.

“I use to… daydream. About you,” he admitted, the back of his neck also warm with a blush now; it didn’t come naturally to him, talking about these things, but he knew Crowley enjoyed knowing he hadn’t been alone in his pining all those centuries. When played right, one of these stories could get Crowley hot and desperate like almost nothing else [10]. Besides, Crowley knew most of this already, implicitly or after haven been explicitly told, so it wasn’t so hard to talk about as it might have been. “That I was simply a human gardener and you just a human nanny.” Aziraphale licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, before delivering what he knew would the coup-de-grace. “Those outfits were the catalyst, as it were. And they ended up playing quite the… prominent role in some of them.”

Aziraphale looked down and was rewarded for his efforts - Crowley was clinging to his leg now rather than cooly and seductively stroking it, and his uncovered eyes had gone wide and very, very yellow, the pupils alternating so quickly between dilation and contraction they almost looked like they were fluttering.

“I think,” Crowley said, voice already taking on the beginnings of that hoarse quality Aziraphale enjoyed so very much, “that I still have the top that goes with this skirt, around here somewhere. And the rest of it too, probably.”

“Even the kitten heels?” Aziraphale asked, letting his voice go deliberately wistful.

“You want those heels, angel, by Above and Below, I’ll get them for you,” Crowley murmured into his thigh, and a shiver ran up Aziraphale’s spine at how wrecked he was beginning to sound.

“Oh, _would you,_ darling? That would be _wonderful_ ,” Aziraphale said, running his hand through Crowley’s hair. Crowley whimpered.

And it truly _was_ wonderful.

-

Footnotes 

[1] it was a bit of an anachronic display, truth be told, but he couldn’t help think it looked rather nifty along his disguise.

[2] in a very similar way he approached the concept of “hips”, in fact.

[3] for a given value of comfort, of course; Aziraphale kept his love for Crowley in the ill shaped, hidden corner of himself where he kept all his emotions and feelings that Heaven would deem unbecoming of an angel, and that space had grown quite cramped, quite quickly. 

[4] Crowley in an egyptian shendyt might have played a central role in a very old, very well loved and often visited fantasy of his.

[5] The outfits concealed enough that Aziraphale had spent the first few weeks of his employment in the Dowling residence hounded by the question of if Crowley had bothered to change what was under her clothes to conform to conservative expectancies or not. The maddening obsession lasted until, on a particularly hot day, while lounging on the lawn with Warlock, Crowley had shed her structured outer jacket. There were still plenty of layers covering her - a blouse and chemise, that he had been able to tell, as well as the abundant ribbon around her collar - but it was enough to make out a shapeliness to her chest, that had clearly been absent in the years before her stint as nanny [6]. 

[6] His body’s reaction to the sight had been quite… extreme.

[7] _Specially not_ the time she had been a nun.

[8] being that his was still crowley, meant to instill Badness into the young Antichrist, the flowers were the estate’s award winning roses instead of any of the abundant and more easily replaceable flowers in the garden. Being this was Crowley, who was, all in all, quite bad at being Bad, thorn related incidents seemed to be miraculously absent.

[9] Peculiarly, both because he was a demon, of course, and because Aziraphale himself couldn’t quite fathom the appeal, though he supposed they were sweet enough when they slept.

[10] Once, he’d reduced Crowley to a mewling, quivering pile of demon by going through his body and revealing each part whose sight had driven Aziraphale so warm with desire he’d been forced to touch himself, and explaining in detail just how he’d done so. He’d been blushing furiously the whole time, but the demon had been blindfolded, and the result had been worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was my very belated 2019 Good Omens Holiday Swap gift for @maria-chwan, who wanted to see some Ashtoreth/Francis goodness. Hope it didn't disappoint!


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